


A Rún

by Persephone



Series: Days of Wine and Roses [2]
Category: Boondock Saints (Movies)
Genre: All Saints' Day, Brotherhood, Brothers, Ireland, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Sibling Incest, Twincest, Twins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:08:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,241
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23298292
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Persephone/pseuds/Persephone
Summary: Two and a half years into exile ... and one of their many fights over "nothing."Um, so... this part of myDays of Wine and Rosesseries popped up out of NOWHERE, let me repeat NOWHERE, in the middle of editing the original first and last parts for publication on Wattpad. I’m as surprised as anything. I’ve reordered the series here on Archive to reflect the new order. Hope you enjoy.
Relationships: Connor MacManus/Murphy MacManus
Series: Days of Wine and Roses [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/13013
Kudos: 8





	A Rún

They were fighting once more—pounding each other’s ribs and faces, and he couldn’t say what for, why it was happening, why they were beating on each other. Why they were acting like little children. They had just fucked, and it had been so good, kissing on each other till nearly senseless with it, so now how were they fighting?

Last he remembered, pulling himself breathlessly from the barn wall, feeling good and right under the cool night air, under the bright and lovely stars, was Murphy’s dark, beautiful head bent to shucking up Murph’s who knew when last washed jeans. A sight that had left him feeling all sorts of good inside. Fucken Murph.

Then he had become aware of the cold water on his back, and realizing it was coming not from rain soaked into the wooden wall behind him, but from a dripping, cracked water pipe directly above their heads, looked up in dismay. Even in the black night he could see the rust clearly.

“Ah, Christ,” said he. “Were ye not asked to fix this two weeks ago, Murph? It’s not the fucken space shuttle and ye could be done sortin’ it in a thrice. It’s not gonna get better on its own, I hope ye know.”

“Yeah, yeah. . .”

“So’s the reason Ma made us both at once,” he continued, letting his frustration get the better of him. “In the hopes that one of us comes out with a working brain.”

“Shut it about Ma.”

“I’m jus’ fucken _sayin’._ ”

“And _I’m_ jus’ fucken hearin’,” Murph jeered. Then said, dismissively, “Shut the fuck up, Connor. Learn to let a man get dressed before ya start up on ya fucken, high and mighty, smartass attitude horse. Jesus, _fuck._ ”

“No, _you_ shut the fuck up. Cuz what the fuck are ye even doin’ out here? I don’t exactly remember inviting ye. I remember comin’ out here, needin’ some space to think, and now here the fuck you are. So maybe, shut the fuck up, and then you’d have the fucken space to _listen_ ”

“Fucken. . . _space,_ Connor?”

“Yeah. Ye know I’m fucken right.”

He should have seen it, should have seen Murph’s eyes tightening so hard that a squint would have seemed a glare.

“You wanna have a fucken _listen,_ Conn?” Murphy said with thinned lips, before smacking the shit out of him. Well, he wasn’t having it, and crossed eyes and seeing stars or no, seized Murphy’s head in a lock and immediately began trying to rearrange Murphy’s features along with his attitude.

Grunting, Murphy shouldered hard him into the barn wall, shuddering more than the thick slats.

“Fuck, _fuck!_ ” he screamed, but Murph was stapled to him, him to the barn, and puttin’ a mallet to his ribcage, until he got his arm in the way, and with a left cut, clocked Murphy, and with a hurl sent him flying across the grass on his back. And him collapsing to his knees. Then both of them stopping, panting for breathing.

So, about an hour ago or thereabouts. . . 

Unable to sleep, he’d come out, behind the barn, on an inspection of the weapons cache they’d buried by the back wall. Why the fuck Murph had followed him out? Who the fuck knew. Meeting him back there, Murph had kept slow pace with him, trailing here and there with sad, hungry eyes, touching him, whisperin’ he couldn’t sleep either. He’d not told Murphy he couldn’t sleep. But then he hadn’t needed to. Murph hadn’t even had to be awake and see his empty bed to know. And when in checking the integrity of the soil around the buried cache, when he’d had to move along one too many times, in so doing needing to move beyond the reach of Murphy’s fingers, and Murphy had let out yet another little whimper of frustrated effort, he’d realized he was also neglecting another aspect of his responsibility.

Pulling him close then, he’d held Murphy close against him, not minding at all when Murph had begun licking his neck, on his tattoo of the Blessed Mother, that had electrified him like in days gone by. Murph had been tender and still sweet, if a little impassioned for three in the morning. Still it had been good. Even if it had left him trembling a bit and stoking that peculiar, frightening feeling of being a child again, fearing separation by a bullying world.

But all that had passed and they had been warm and easy on each other, him kissing Murphy on his matching tattoos, on the mole at the corner of Murphy’s mouth. Murph had been so lovely, breathing his name while brushing his lips against his mouth, murmuring what he could not quite make out but had been enjoying trying to, a prayer in Latin, or maybe a Gaelic love poem, which, believe, had set a smile forming on his face. Around which time he had looked up and seen the rusted pipe, and now this.

How in Ireland had a throwaway remark set Murphy on him as such? Feet away on the cold, dark grass, Murph had not moved. 

Breathing quietened, jeans open and jersey and sweater ridden up so that bare stomach to naked crotch Murph was exposed to the cold night, Murphy was completely silent. Their jackets were in a heap at his own feet, where he now suspected the things had felt so heavy being forcefully kicked away by him probably because half the water streaming down the side of the barn must have soaked into the shearling. Probably before Murphy had even had him up against it coming to pieces and neglecting _this_ responsibility.

“Th’fuck’re ye beatin’ on me for, huh, Murph?” he spat, enraged, perplexed. “Wha’ happened to the fucken sense you had in Boston? How’d ye get so dumb and full’a piss all of a sudden? Swear to fucken Christ, I’m of a mind ta’ check all’a these fucken caches, just cuz I now hafta’ make sure ye did as ye were fucken told in buryin’ ‘em. Ye and yer everlastin’ _shite_ attitude. Honestly, I wouldn’t a’tall be surprised if half the fucken shites out here aren’t even in fucken crates.”

Murphy lay staring with glittering eyes at the night sky. “You keep talkin’, Connor. Maybe one day I’ll fucken listen.”

“Shut the fuck up, Murph!”

And Murphy did.

“This shit is fucken life or death. Are ye not aware? Is that of no importance to ye?”

Murphy said nothing. And after a genuinely long moment, sat up. With a hard breath, knees drawn up and forearms resting on his knees, and face turned away, Murphy seemed to have nothing whatsoever to say for himself. Then Murphy slowly turned a look on him. And as if by a decision he himself couldn’t stomach, in having to speak to him, with slitted eyes and a completely shite look, Murphy slowly, childishly jeered, “I’m fucken sorry, Connor.”

Locking his jaw, lowering his head, he forced the will to let it pass. The night would make no more sense come morning and there was just no point in making himself hoarse.

It didn’t take even ’til morning. Murphy returned to their cold stone bedroom soon after he did, and falling asleep long before him, left him sitting on the wood edge of Murph’s bed, simply staring at his twin in a perplexed state. Something was wrong with one of them.

•


End file.
